Northern Lights, Southern Stars

by C. S. Johnson

  Northern Lights,

  Southern Stars

  A FAIRY TALE FANTASY RETELLING OF SNOW WHITE

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  C. S. Johnson

  Copyright © 2019 by C. S. Johnson. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  1st edition.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-948464-37-6

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948464-42-0

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Northern Lights, Southern Stars

  To Get Awakening (A Special Christmas Episode of The Starlight Chronicles) as a bonus for picking up this book, | Click Here

  Or Download It At: | https://www.csjohnson.me/awakening

  *1* | Ebony

  *2* | Rion

  *3* | Ebony

  *4* | Rion

  *5* | Varyes

  *6* | Ebony

  *7* | Rion

  *8* | Ebony

  *9* | Rion

  *10* | Ebony

  *11* | Ebony

  *12* | Varyes

  *13* | Rion

  *14* | Ebony

  *15* | Rion

  *16* | Ebony

  *17* | Varyes

  *18* | Ebony

  *19* | Ebony

  *20* | Rion

  *21* | Ebony

  *22* | Rion

  *23* | Ebony

  *24* | Ebony

  *25* | Ebony

  *26* | Varyes

  *27* | Rion

  *28* | Ebony

  *29* | Varyes

  *30* | Rion

  *31* | Ebony

  *Epilogue* | Ebony

  To Get Awakening (A Special Christmas Episode of The Starlight Chronicles) as a bonus for picking up this book, | Click Here

  Or Download It At: | https://www.csjohnson.me/awakening

  Thank you for reading! Please leave a review for this book and check out www.csjohnson.me for other books and updates!

  NORTHERN LIGHTS, SOUTHERN STARS

  Further Reading: Beauty's Curse

  Also By C. S. Johnson

  About the Author

  Dedicated with much love to my children and my beloved husband. You are my life’s love song, and I will live beyond time to see it ring out into Heaven.

  This is also for Faith Moore. Songs come in all sorts, and I owe much joy to the sisterly song of friendship I’ve found thanks to you.

  As a special thanks, I’d like to also dedicate this book to Wendy Nagy, the lady who introduced a world of music to me in high school, including Barnswell’s “Wanting Memories,” which partially inspired this retelling.

  This book is also only here because of the love of my readers, too:

  Lorel K. (First order!)

  April H.

  Caren B.

  Chris S. (Happy birthday!)

  Jacob A. (Comics King!)

  Rosemary D. (Bat Lady!)

  Amanda W.

  Maggie R.

  Darla C.

  Laura P. (Unicorn Princess!)

  Terri R. (“Aunt Cherry!”)

  Jessica B. (My fellow pain warrior princess!)

  Teresa C. (“C” for Celebrate!)

  Tina M. (My Amanda’s Books & More Lady!)

  Julie G. (A good lady is hard to find!)

  Brittany G. (G for so Grateful for you!)

  Donna S.

  Connie H. (Happy Young 61!)

  Adriana K.

  Marlene R.

  Amy B. (My awesome Zany Aussie!)

  Rebecca B. (Another awesome Aussie!)

  Theresa I. (My IM reader!)

  Jess C.

  Kara G. (Purple Pen!)

  Leslie Z.

  Gay D. (My Happy Sheriff)

  Elisabeth W. (Sissi!)

  Krissy F. (My Krissy-in-arms!)

  William V. (My Adopted Aussie Grandda)

  Pat C.

  Tiffany W.

  Crystal M.

  Bonnie R.

  Anne-Marie S.

  Debe K.

  Shawnae A.

  Anna Maria A.

  To Get Awakening (A Special Christmas Episode of The Starlight Chronicles) as a bonus for picking up this book,

  Click Here

  Or Download It At:

  https://www.csjohnson.me/awakening

  *1*

  Ebony

  MY STEPS ARE SWIFT and sure, creating only the softest of echoes as I make my way through the palace. It’s past midnight, and, even after all the years I’ve lived in Pommier’s palace – both as a princess and servant – the silence from the castle occupants is both welcoming and frightening.

  Footsteps click-clack further down the hall, and my heart pounds with dreadful anticipation; I stop short and press myself into the nearest crevice in the castle wall. The residents and other servants here are kind to me, but they go sad and silent when I get into trouble.

  That’s how I know I will always be different from them.

  It is not just a matter of my darker Maruli skin or my foreign heritage. It is something that seems even more innate, something about me that causes people everywhere to stumble. And as much as I might hope, I don’t know if the Maruli and Pommierians will be able to bridge the chasm I see all around me.

  There’s another scuffle of movement down the hall. This time it’s closer, and I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut, fearing I will be caught.

  I can feel the flame of my candle as it flickers, as I huddle it behind my palm and nearly burn myself.

  I should’ve brought Vi with me.

  Almost immediately, I toss the idea aside. My speciava could have easily served as a lookout. But Viola, my assigned mirror-slave, has already given me plenty of warnings about this nighttime venture, and despite her flair for show – with her wily violet-colored eyes bulging and her wispy hair smoking off into nothingness on the other side of the mirror – I have ignored her.

  I am the one who decided to see the truth for myself, no matter the cost.

  The sound of the footsteps fades away, and the hallway goes silent again. I continue on my way, this time more carefully.

  Vi did not say I would be caught.

  I hold that hope like an anchor to my heart, guarding it like a secret; I tremble at even thinking it, as if thinking about it silently is akin to bragging about it publicly. I know from our Sunday services that the devil is far wilier than I, and he does not need a formal invitation to bring about trouble.

  And I am courting trouble badly enough as it is.

  Vi told me as much earlier, and she is never wrong. That is part of her magic and part of her curse: She is not allowed to lie while she is serving out her sentence.

  Viola was given to me when I first came to the kingdom of Pommier. Before she was sentenced to her fate as a speciava, she worked as a housekeeper for another Pommierian family. She was accused of stealing, found guilty, and then sentenced to work off her crime as a speciava.

  It is still hard for me to see her as someone who would willingly submit to authority. There are moments when I think she committed a crime against the kingdom so she could be sentenced to a fate in the mirror world, and, while she has hinted at such throughout our time together, I have kept myself from asking her those questions.

  I know more than most how our pasts, even the worst parts, become more precious to us as time passes.

  My steps falter again as I arrive at the High Tower. The door opens easily, revealing an unlit staircase, with a full moon offering a beacon of hope at the top. A soft, chilly breeze flows down the staircase. The candle in my hand flickers, and I whisper a prayer for it to remain pr
otected as I eye the golden flame dancing on my dark palms.

  I take a deep breath. Not only am I risking the Queen’s wrath and my subsequent punishment, but I am also risking my heart all over again.

  “You’ve always left me with one light, Lord,” I whisper, as I take that first step of faith. I feel an otherworldly sense of the miraculous surround me as my foot lands firmly on stone.

  The candle’s light steadies, and I have to keep myself from sighing with relief.

  My steps grow more confident as I progress up the stairs. God has always been faithful to leave me with at least one light in the darkness of my life. When my mother died, I had my father; now that my father is gone, I have my people, the Maruli, and memories of happier times.

  Marula is my true home, and if I’m going to return to it, I have to find out if Prince Rion’s ship has truly come into port.

  As I step up to the top of the High Tower, I notice it looked just as it had the last time I visited. I look up to the night sky and blow out my candle, so I can keep myself hidden.

  Putting out the light serves two purposes: It allows me to slide into the shadows, and, without the light, I am forced to stay here until early morning. As much as I believe in God, and I have faith in his providence, I do not believe in being careless enough to walk down such a steep staircase in the dark.

  Even though breaking my neck on the way down would likely please the queen.

  I have to shake my head to clear it of such a thought, even if it is true.

  It’s been four years since the Queen deemed it too dangerous for me to go up to the High Tower.

  My lips curl into a frown at the memory. When I’d asked her why, she’d responded with an unyielding bitterness.

  “Why? Don’t be silly, Ebony. Have you considered how easy it would be for you to jump off once you got up there? I’d rather not ask your fellow Maruli countrymen to clean up the mess you’d make.”

  I can still see her perfectly in that moment; her once-blonde hair lined with gray, her gemstone-green eyes deepening into hardened glass. As I’d watched her, Queen Varyes shifted positions on her throne, pulling her long, black dress closer to her. It was a sign of mourning, and, despite her bitter cruelty, I had decided then I could forgive her. She was grieved by my father’s death, and, for a queen as powerful as she was, it was likely difficult to have fate go contrary to her will.

  She spoiled my good will, however, the more she kept talking.

  “They’ve been quite diligent in their servant’s duties thus far and I think such a task would break their hearts,” Queen Varyes said with a twisted frown. “Especially after they had to bury King Maru.”

  The mention of my father made tears blur my vision, but I remained still and silent before my stepmother. I realized now that she’d left off my title – “Princess” – when she addressed me, but I am not sure if she meant to or not; Queen Varyes was the queen of Pommier, and she didn’t have to call me by title. But there were plenty of times she would add it, especially when we were in public together. That was how it had always been since she’d married my father just after my seventh birthday.

  “Thank you, Highness.” I curtsied deep, excusing myself from her presence, but before I could leave, Queen Varyes called after me.

  “On that note, Ebony, you’ll do well to remember that I have no use for broken hearts around here.”

  I’d stepped back in shock at her words, and, even four years later, I feel an involuntary shudder slip down my spine.

  I know now she’d meant it as a warning. Once my father’s mourning period ended, so did my life as a princess in the kingdom of Pommier.

  Not long after that she demanded I pay for room and board, and everything else I needed while I was in the kingdom. Until I could return to Marula, I was reduced to a servant, working for the Queen and her household—the household I’d once known as my own. It doesn’t matter if I am Princess of Marula. Not while my stepmother is Queen of Pommier, and I am in her domain.

  I momentarily glance down at my outfit. My apron is dirty and tied over a faded linen maid’s dress; the material is drab and scratchy and cheap, but after the past years of working as a servant and learning all I could to do my assigned jobs well, it is still clean. There is a scent of lemon and honey that clings to it, reminding me of the good times I’ve had with the worker friends I’ve made.

  The only bit of color I’ve allowed myself to keep—against Vi’s wishes, once more—was my headscarf. As a Maruli and a princess, I always do my best to wear my family’s colors of green, gold, and white. It isn’t the best for sneaking around, but I’ve knotted the scarf in the front to keep my tight, defiant curls loose in the back. The natural density of my hair blocks out the white and gold batik designs on my headscarf, and I can walk with dignity even in the rest of my servants’ rags.

  I lift my chin as I walk to the tower’s balcony. The battlements, at this height, give me plenty of room to seat myself, but remembering the Queen’s “concern” that I would jump if I got too close, I kneel down on my knees and use the lower edge of the battlements as a place to put my arms.

  I don’t know how long I have before the morning bell chimes and I am expected in the kitchens. As I sit there, I lock my hands in a position of perpetual prayer, although I am too focused on the far ends of the horizon to say any true prayer.

  In the smallest slice of dawn, I can just make out the sea and the ships it carries.

  Earlier, I’d heard the rumors that Prince Rion, Queen Varyes’ son and regent king of my home nation of Marula, had pulled his ship into Pommier’s harbor; he was expected to arrive at the palace within the next day.

  I inch forward, leaning over the ledge just a little, hoping to find any scrap of proof that there was reason to hope.

  And if there is truly any reason for hope, it is Rion who would bring it to me.

  He promised me. He promised.

  As the dawn creeps over the sea and prepares to take the sky captive, I fold my fingers together more tightly and lean my forehead on them, brushing my scarf against them, and a small laugh escapes me as another tickling breeze brushes by me.

  When another laugh answers me, my laughter quickly dies. I feel myself straighten, terrified I’d been caught.

  “I’ve been told a Maruli laughs at the wind at his peril.”

  I whirl around. I already know his voice, but I barely recognize his face; if it weren’t for the familiar mischievous grin on Prince Rion’s sun-burned face, I might not have known him at all.

  My heart leaps up into my throat in surprise. I haven’t seen him since my father’s funeral four years ago, but Rion still inspires the same mix of relief and apprehension inside of me. Rion is, first of all, my friend; we had grown up as much as we’d grown together, facing life in Pommier under my father’s brightness and his mother’s darkness, and if I’d ever seen proof that miracles were real, Rion is more than enough.

  In many ways, we weren’t supposed to be friends at all. Once Marula was joined into the Pommierian Empire, he became the heir to the throne over Marula as well as Pommier and their other colonies. I was allowed to remain as its Princess, but my father’s death resulted in a lot of confusion, especially as Queen Varyes was left as the remaining ruler and gave Rion the title of regent over the Maruli.

  It seemed as though the Queen wanted us pitted against each other, but Rion never became my enemy or competitor for the throne. Instead, he became my friend, and I grew to love him as a friend.

  And perhaps more.

  The thought crosses my mind as it double-crosses my heart. My affection for Rion concerns me; I don’t even want to consider it, really, and, right now, it does not help me to see Rion has grown into manhood while I have fallen away into servitude.

  “A fine thing for you to say, especially when it looks as though you have been laughing at the wind quite a bit yourself,” I say, finally finding my voice. My eyes, now adapted to the dim light, take his visage in fully.
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  His flaxen hair curls freely into a loose bob, a popular style in Marula—though of course the Maruli people are dark-skinned, with dark, defiant hair—and I have to wonder, bitterly, if only momentarily, if God did in fact choose him to rule my people after my father’s death. He has a good reputation among my people, despite their initial unhappiness at our kingdom’s union with Pommier.

  There are plenty of reasons his good reputation is earned; I look down at his hands, seeing the patches of tell-tale roughness on his palms. “You were working the sails along with the crew on the way here, weren’t you?”

  “I was expecting my mother’s reprove, not yours,” Rion says, as he gives me a playful bow. “You know our fondness for breaking rules has always been a cornerstone of our friendship. And it’s clearly evident we remain much the same, Princess. After all, you’re not supposed to be up here, are you?”

  “I was expecting your mother’s reprove, not yours.” I stand up, slowly brushing off my skirts as I continue to stare at him.

  “But you were expecting me, right?”

  It is too easy to fall back into our patterns. I refuse to admit he is right. Our playful banter is childish and silly, but as I turn away from him, I look down at the rags I am wearing. Shame hits me first, before pride responds.

  I cross my arms. “Have I ever expected you?”

  Rion steps up behind me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and laughs, this time much more gently.

  “That seems fair. I’m never prepared to see you, either, it seems.”

  “You were prepared enough to meet me here,” I say. “How did you know I would be here?”

  “It’s been four years, but I never doubted that you would be where I last saw you.” Rion’s voice is softer, but now there is a hardened quality to it. He is still sad at the loss of my father.

  It’s his vulnerability that makes me look back at him.

  “I promised you I would be here,” I remind him quietly.

  In the moonlight, our eyes meet, and it’s almost like there’s a sparkle of hope that strikes between us, as if something between our souls has become more tangible. Rion stares down at me. I watch as his eyes travel down my face, taking in my full presence. I wait for him to say something about my servant’s clothes, but he just keeps staring at me.